When the World Stops Turning
by thebondgirl
Summary: When we loose someone we love, people say that life can never be the same..all you have to do is prove them wrong. Oneshot set before Season 1, the day that Margaret Eppes died and the three Eppes men come to terms and help each other through their grief.


**A/N:** hey there everyone! yeah, if you're one of the ones waiting for updates on either fics "what a wonderful world" - (num3rs), and/or "nowhere to run" - (csi), then i seriously appologize, cause i've hit a bit of a writer's block on them both, and am in the process of working around the block to get to the fics on the other side:P in the mean time, i hope you enjoy this one! it's my first one-shot in a while, so i hope it turned out okay - r & r and let me know:):)

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**When the World Stops Turning**

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_'Help your brother's boat across, and your own will reach the shore.'_

_-Hindu Proverb-_

_-- _

A soft breeze had picked up in the trees, it's gentle push softly rustling the leaves on their branches so that it was as though they were whispering to him as he walked down the street, trying desperately to tell him the deep meaning behind all that took place in the world, behind what had taken place that day, trying to reassure him that despite what he may think, life would carry on as usual with each new day, each new hour, minute, and second, even for him - for his family as well, even if they had just been deprived of such an important part of it. Whether he ignored their message or he simply could not hear it through his sorrow could not be certain.

He wasn't any more aware of the destination to which his feet were taking him than he was of the tears that were streaming down his cheeks, tears that he had never allowed anyone to see throughout this entire nightmare but that had suddenly and without warning made their presence known earlier that day, when the sun was still in the sky, not that it's presence made any difference - for Don, that sun, which had once been a source of such brilliant light and comforting warmth had vanished that day, stolen mercilessly from them by the evil known as cancer, leaving everything cold and dark, inside and out, long before night-time had actually set in.

His red-rimmed eyes traveled vaguely over the happenings around him, hardly believing what he saw in the hum of the thinning night traffic and the buzz of the pedestrians that still roamed L.A's streets, even at this hour. How could life outside of that hospital room still be so normal? How could things carry on so casually, so naturally, when his own life had been turned inside out, become so bleak over the course of these past months? How could these people be smiling, talking so calmly and happily about everyday, mundane things, when he felt as though his heart and soul had been injected with ice, then shattered by the hammer of mortality that had made its heart-breaking presence known by stealing such a beautiful, and wonderful mother and wife away from the ones who loved her the most? How could the world simply, and so easily move on without Margaret Eppes?

Another breeze picked up, this one slightly colder and more aggressive than the last as it bit through the meager T-shirt that Don wore. He didn't notice. He was already numb, had been since the steady beeps of the heart-monitor had fused together into a constant wail, the sound driving stakes through the two hearts that still beat on either side of the hospital bed. He didn't even remember walking out the door, didn't so much as spare a glance at any of the doctors or patients that filled the halls as he stumbled into the elevator, then somehow out the hospital's doors and onto the sidewalk.

He wasn't sure exactly how long he had been wandering the streets, could only make a rough estimate somewhere in the vicinity of five hours between the time that he'd left that sterile smelling, looking, and feeling building, and now, wherein he was somewhere in L.A, or at least he thought - he could have wandered over the Mexican boarder in this trance and not have noticed it until some mugger or other decided to shoot him for his shoes.

That thought made his feet finally stop moving finally, though he didn't even register their now constant throbbing as he pictured his father's reaction if he were to get a phone call saying that Don had been killed, not five hours after he'd lost his wife. The heart that he'd thought to have been destroyed constricted painfully in his chest as he tried to keep himself from thinking about exactly what that would do to Alan, wondering if he could possibly cope with it all while still trying to keep his other son from starving himself to death.

Just thinking of Charlie made Don temporarily forget at least part of his grief as he started walking again, this time filled with an overwhelming anger towards his younger brother. How could he have done that? How could he have done that to their _mother_? How could he have ignored her so completely through all her suffering, deciding to focus all of his energy and time on that goddamned P vs. NP problem? After all that she'd done for him, after all that she'd sacrificed to make sure that his gift was realized and nurtured, he abandoned her when she needed him, _all_ of them, the most.

Don's breathing sped up and his hands fisted at his sides as he sped up his walk, picturing Charlie as they'd left him that morning, same as every other time they headed off to the hospital, before and after Margaret had finally been forced to take up residence: standing in front of those chalk boards that he'd set up in the garage, covered head to toe in chalk dust as he scribbled equations and numbers frantically onto their surfaces at a dizzying pace, the previous night's meal sitting untouched on a paper-covered table while that morning's breakfast began cooling beside it, also untouched. What got to Don the most however was how much Charlie was making their parents worry, most especially their mother who during every visit would ask if they'd gotten him to eat yet that day, and, if the answer was a heart-felt yet exasperated 'no', then she would carefully and patiently explain all the different ways she had of coaxing him inside for a meal so that they could give it another go when they returned home. Sometimes her solutions worked, a lot of the time they didn't. Eventually, Alan and Don had agreed not to let on to Margaret just how little Charlie was eating, deciding quite simply to lie for the greater good - that greater good being keeping as much stress as possible away from the woman they loved while her steadily weakening body continued its loosing battle against the disease that ravaged it.

Don slowed his almost feverish pace as his thoughts returned once more to his father, to the overwhelming sense of loss that had no doubt consumed him as much as it had Don, and he knew that he had to get home, he had to head back to the house and be there for him - he was the only son who would.

That new purpose in mind, Don finally allowed his eyes to refocus and for his mind to take in where he was so that he could begin walking towards Pasadena, or maybe even call a cab if while walking he had ended up a little too far away to continue on foot. Much to his shock and surprise, he found that subconsciously he had walked all the way across town and well-into Pasadena, and that, entirely without his even realizing it, he'd come to a stop directly in front of his childhood home. He almost smiled as he slowly made his way to the door, at the thought that even with how far gone his mind had been, his feet had known to bring him back home, where he was needed. Almost smiled, but not quite.

Noticing that there was no car in the drive but figuring that maybe the hospital staff had sent Alan home in a cab when they couldn't reach Don (he cursed himself for turning off his cell), Don quietly let himself in the front door and just as quietly announced his presence, calling out to his dad. He received no answer, but noticed that the answering machine had the flashing number two on its screen and so walked over to it and pushed the play button. Immediately his father's voice keyed up over the speaker, sounding every bit as overwhelmed as Don had feared, but at the same time it held a calm that Don hadn't expected. He suspected that it was born of living every day with one son who worked in one of the most dangerous versions of law enforcement, and another who lived, breathed, slept, and ate numbers, having to be reminded constantly to eat actual food and sleep for real once in a while.

"_Donnie, it's Dad - I'm just calling because, well, you'll probably find your way home before I do, and it seems that we may have a bit of a situation on our hands."_ There was a long pause and Don could hear his father sigh tiredly over the line before he continued. "_One of the med-student aids that was on shift when your mother... it looks as though he overheard that a member of our family had not been present when it happened, and took it upon himself to phone the house and... well, if our luck holds true to the norm of late, this would be the one time where Charlie finally decides to pick up the phone._"

Another pause, though this one held the unmistakable sounds of sniffing and deep intakes of breath, making it clear that Alan was fighting off a bought of emotion. This realization did nothing in helping Don to keep his own in check.

"_Just please... I know you're upset with him, because of everything, but he needs you Donnie... you need each other... Anyways, I won't be coming home just yet, I... I just need... I just want to sit... to sit with her... for... a while..._" His voice was cracking audibly, and Don found that those cursed tears were making another appearance. "_But I will be home tonight, and I'll... we'll make some supper, something to eat. Maybe... we could make that stew that Charlie likes so much - maybe then... maybe then he'll come inside for a while..._" A muffled sob, one that rang out loudly through the now suffocatingly quiet house. Don found that he couldn't take his eyes off the machine, tearfully entranced by his father's words of desperate hope; hope that they could continue with their lives, hope that Charlie could be pulled out of his little world before he self destructed... hope that what was left of their family would not fall apart. Alan finally found it in him to finish. "_Take care son... I'll see you when I get home - I love you both._"

Click.

The second the message ended, Don's gaze dragged itself over to the door that led out to the garage, and he felt that same anger swell in his chest, his hands once more curling themselves into fists. Why should he try to comfort Charlie? He stayed in his little P vs. NP bubble the whole time that their mother was dying... what reason did Don have to believe that Charlie had actually taken a step out to realize that she was dead?

A second beep from the machine on the table beside him reminded him that there was still another message to be listened to, and so he pushed aside his resentment towards the young man in the garage in order to absorb what was being said.

_Beeeeep - "Hi! You've reached the Eppes residence! We aren't here right now to take your call, so leave a message and we'll get back to you! Have a wonderful day!" -_ _Beeeeep_

The sound of his mother's voice on their answering machine recording made all the breath leave Don's body, and he clamped a hand over his mouth to keep himself from crying out. Why hadn't they changed that message yet? Had it really been that long since either of the older Eppes men had cared what it said, that Margaret had been the last one to record it?

Making a mental note to exchange the tape for a new one before his father returned, Don forced himself to listen to the message.

_"Hello? This is Wesley Brody from Memorial Hospital. I was just calling to speak to - "_

A loud click interrupted the message, and Charlie's voice suddenly cued up, and Don stared hard at the floor while the recording continued. Apparently something in the machine had miscalculated and had continued recording - another mental note to get it fixed. He continued to listen.

_"This is Charlie Eppes."_ Don felt his heart skip a beat at how weak Charlie's voice sounded, but he forced the fear down - Charlie had done that to _himself_. The message continued.

_"Hello Mr. Eppes, this is Wesley Brody from Memorial -"_

_"Yes, yes I know! What is it? What's wrong?"_ His voice was immediately fearful, yet also optimistic, as though at the back of his mind he knew what a phone call from the hospital could only mean, but decided to ignore the obvious and hope for the best - typical Charlie.

_"Sir, I regret to inform you that -"_ Charlie interrupted again, but not as loudly as before.

_"No..."_ Denial and pain were obvious in the quiet statement, and Don tried to ignore the fearful tug at his gut. _"No."_

_"Sir, would you like me to send a cab to pick you up?"_

_"No, I... no, that... that won't be...necessary. Thank... thank you... " _Charlie's voice was almost a whisper, and there was an empty tone to it that made Don swallow hard as his heart sped up.

_"I'm sorry for your lo - "_ The line went dead before the med-student could finish the false sentiment. Charlie had hung up on him. If Don were still at the hospital he would've wrung Wesley Brody's neck with his bare hands; no stranger should have been the one to break this news to Charlie - it should have been done by Don or their father, or both, someone who knew and loved Margaret Eppes... and Charlie for that matter.

Don sighed, rubbing the tensing muscles on the back of his neck as he slowly made his way over to the door that he had walked through at least once a day these past few months, either to bring out a meal or to drag Charlie in for one (where he mostly just pushed the food around on his plate), or to try to make him sleep. Not that he'd ever stay in his room - most nights that Charlie had either forcibly or willingly gone upstairs to his room and gotten into bed, Don would always hear him pacing his floor for at least fifteen minutes, then the genius' door would quietly creak open and Charlie would head back downstairs, back into the garage, pick up a piece of chalk, and continue where he left off. Don never let on that he'd heard him - he just kept on getting him up there, hoping that at some point, exhaustion and/or common sense would make him lay down and get some rest.

Stopping outside the wooden door, he listened sadly to the erratic noises of scratching chalk and pushed aside his feelings of anger and resentment - there would be other times for that; right now he had to be the big brother and be there when he was needed. With one last deep breath, he opened the door and stepped inside.

The scene that met his eyes was what he knew it would be: papers were still scattered over every surface of the room and a thick cloud of white dust hung in the air. Hanging from and leaned up against every wall and desk were chalkboards covered in a 'language' that Don never would understand, covered in the unsolvable problem that his little brother had been trying to solve since the cancer had been diagnosed. And as usual, there stood Charlie, his back to Don, writing his thoughts as fast as his hand could move, which sometimes wasn't fast enough, in which case he'd have to quickly wipe off whatever line had turned into an illegible scribble and rewrite it a little slower so that it formed a legible scribble instead. What was different about this time though was that, unlike what Don remembered from every other trip in there he'd made, Charlie was obviously crying, his shoulders and hands shaking as he worked, his rapid, shallow breaths sending tremors through his body.

Not bothering to announce his presence, Don merely walked over to his side, standing to make sure that Charlie would be able to see him - not that that made any difference. Charlie's bloodshot and tear-filled eyes remained glued to the equations in front of him. He didn't acknowledge Don.

"Stop Charlie," he whispered. Charlie's arm never ceased its movement, but Charlie did respond, albeit vaguely.

"Can't... I... I can't... train of thought... I might... might loose it..." he breathed as more tears cascaded down his cheeks.

"Yes, you _can_," Don stated quietly, but firmly, undeterred. Charlie shook his head, the motion coming across as more of a spasm than anything.

"No - _no_. Donnie... you don't understand... I have to... to solve this..."

"No you don't Charlie - _please_, just stop this," he pleaded, biting back more tears that threatened to fall. Just how many tears could one guy cry in one day? Don supposed he was on the right track to finding out. "We need to stick together on this buddy; Dad and I need you, and you need us... we have to be there for each other Charlie - we're all we got left." The chalk never ceased its movements.

"Donnie, I _need_ to solve this... it could make it all better..." Suddenly the anger that Don had been working so hard to keep at bay flared up to its full intensity and Don's hand shot forward and grabbed a firm, somewhat painful hold of Charlie's wrist, ignoring Charlie's small cry as he used the captured wrist to whip the man around to face his fury head on.

"You don't _need_ to solve anything!" he yelled, the storm gates on his suppressed emotions opening up all the way. "Every day that mom was sick, you locked yourself in here and worked on this damn math problem, but guess what Charlie? Math isn't everything!" In the back of his mind, his more reasonable self registered the fear and hurt building in his little brother's eyes, but for the moment that self was stifled by the anger that was running rampant through his very core. "Mom needed you Charlie! She needed you there with her! You don't know what it was like having her ask every day how _you_ were doing, having to see the look in her eyes every time we told her where you were until we started lying about it to make her feel better!" Don was crying now, but he couldn't care less as the words he'd been longing to say all this time finally poured out into the musty garage air. "You abandoned her - you abandoned us! All so that you could hide in here with your numbers in your own perfect world!" He stopped to take in some air before continuing, his voice an angry whisper. "Well, I got news for you Charlie: you solving this equation isn't gonna do a _damn_ thing, and it isn't gonna make _anything_ better - Mom's _dead_ Charlie, and your math can't change that."

After the words left his mouth, it was like a switch flicked off and the anger almost completely dissipated, leaving him shocked and reeling at what he'd just said to his baby brother as he carefully let go of the wrist that he'd been grasping and Charlie took a few small steps away from him. He almost couldn't bring himself to look at Charlie's face but forced himself to do just that, physically pained at the hurt and sadness that he found in the expressive brown eyes that looked up at him from under the mess of curls. For a long moment the both of them could merely stand and stare at each other's tear-streaked faces, Charlie occasionally opening and closing his mouth in an effort to scrounge up some words, but nothing would come.

Don noticed then that Charlie had begun to shake more violently then before, not just from tears either. For the first time in months, Don really looked at Charlie's appearance and found the fear in his heart growing by the second as he took in just how much weight his brother had lost, his once perfectly sized clothing now hanging loosely off his small frame. Don could never remember Charlie's skin ever being that pale, or the splotches under his eyes being that dark, and wondered just how he had managed to dismiss such things for so long.

Then suddenly as image came unbidden to his mind, one of just two days ago when he'd been to see his mom after breakfast. The image of her lying weak, pale, and shaky in her bed after another round of chemo now burned a hole in his soul as he gazed over at his brother's matching appearance and realized what it was that he had overlooked when it came to Charlie and their mother's cancer: Charlie may not have sat at her beside, but he had been dying right along with her. For all intents and purposes, they had shared this disease, both exhausted but kept awake by pain, one physical, the other emotional, and neither one could bring themselves to eat as often as they needed to, both becoming just as skeletal, weaker with each passing day.

Until today. Today, their mother had died - so what about Charlie?

A fear greater than any he'd ever known gripped Don as he watched his brother sway dangerously, still trying to find his voice to speak. With a cry of distress Don lunged forward, catching Charlie's too-thin form as his knees finally buckled. Crying even harder now, Don clutched his brother to himself as he carefully lowered them both to sit on the ground. He almost didn't hear Charlie speak.

"Donnie... God, you're... you're right... about everything - you're right... I'm so s-sorry Donnie... please, forgive me..." Squeezing him tighter for a moment, Don then pulled away so that he was looking Charlie in the eyes, and shook his head fiercely.

"No Charlie, I wasn't right - I was _wrong_; I didn't understand before, but I understand now... I see now and... it's okay, it's okay Charlie... you've got nothing to be sorry about - I know now, I understand." Charlie's only response was for his trembling to kick it up a notch as his eyes welled up again, and Don pulled him once more into a bone crushing hug as the young mathematician's body was wracked with some of the most heart-wrenching sobs Don had ever heard, such sadness compelling him to hold on even tighter, knowing that nothing in heaven or earth could make him let go of his brother right then.

As they sat there, each dispelling some of their grief from the day, Don felt himself begin to smile a little. It wasn't a very big one, and didn't quite light up his eyes like his smiles usually did, but it was a smile none the less, one that accompanied the thoughts and sentiments running through his head - Don may never entirely understand how Charlie's mind worked, how he thought, or why exactly he acted a certain way but one thing was for certain: when push came to shove, they always connected on that special level, and they would always, no matter what, be there for each other.

Neither one was really sure how long they'd been sitting there before quiet footsteps could be heard entering the garage and they felt more than saw the person kneel down beside them. Next second both of them were being pulled into Alan's arms and they both latched onto him, Don wrapping his arms tightly around his chest while Charlie mimicked the action around his torso, though his grip was noticeably weaker than his older brother's. Both of them buried their faces in their father's shirt, taking in the familiar scent and the comfort of his warmth as though right at that moment, it was the only thing sustaining them. With a sad sigh, Alan put an arm around each of his boys and hugged them close, kissing each softly on top of their heads before squeezing them even tighter, battling the lump in his throat.

Alan said not a word as they embraced, but inside his mind, his thoughts were being voiced adamantly: Yes, his wife, his Margaret, was gone, and yes her passing would leave a part of his heart vacant forever, but he could not, _would not_ forget just how much he loved their sons, of how much he owed it to them, and to her, to carry them through this until they were able to once more stand on their own to feet, to continue loving them and caring enough for them for both himself and Margaret as they continued on with their lives.

At that last thought, Alan looked down at his youngest son and took in again just how much this tragedy had beaten down on the young man and knew that his caring on behalf of his late wife as well as himself had to start right then; he would bring Charlie back to life so to speak, with Don's help of course, and, with Charlie's help, he would make sure that Don knew how much he was loved and needed by his family, here, at home. With God as his witness, he vowed to make sure that this family stayed a happy one, and together, they would grow strong again.

Finally unwrapping his arm from around his sons, he tilted both of their faces up so that he could look at them before standing and placing a hand on each of their shoulders and speaking in a quiet, yet warm voice.

"I don't know about you two, but I'm famished," he said, managing a small smile which he was glad to see returned. "What do you boys say to heading inside and cooking up some stew?"

Don nodded and stood. "I'm in. Charlie?"

"Sounds good to me," he said lightly, accepting a hand up from both Don and Alan. He still shook from exhaustion and lack of food, his body weak enough that he needed to lean on his brother and father to keep from falling back to the ground. Expertly hiding just how scared they were about how small he had become, Don and their father lead him slowly and carefully inside, steering him towards a stool at the counter so that even though he was in no condition to help with the cooking, he would still be able to remain close to them, which is what all three Eppes men wanted.

And so they began the work of putting together their meal, still solemn and grieving, but all the same managing a smile or a brief laugh here or there, each of them thinking the same thing: though their lives had indeed just been altered and they would miss Margaret Eppes with all their hearts, the world would keep on spinning, and they would keep on living, helping each other to survive this loss and learn to be happy again.

That's what families do.

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_'Other things may change us, but we start and end with our family.'_

_-Anthony Brandt-_

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The End


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